Emptiness
by howlsatthemoon
Summary: "Sweetie," he murmurs against the shell of her ear, and she feels dirty, "I didn't know you were so gullible." / The night when things went wrong. Ja/B.


Disclaimer: _I don't own Gossip Girl. Not the TV series, or the books, which are APPARENTLY the same now. _:P

Okay. I am very pissed that FF mixed the Gossip Girl books and TV section together. The books and television series are two totally separate things—not to be merged! Now it's going to be all confusing, with the TV-verse and the Book-verse and the… *sigh* Let's just say, I'm pissed. So I wrote a bitter oneshot. Anyone else this peeved or do I just have issues?

-~-

It is eleven thirty three at night, and every minute feels empty without him.

She feels hollow inside. Like there's something missing in her heart, a whole where someone named Chuck used to reside in. Everyone around her laughs and drinks champagne like nothing is wrong here, everything is perfect without him. Maybe they are. But she was always the broken type of girl.

And the truth of the matter is, it's New Year's Eve—and in twenty-seven minutes, it would be New Year's and she would be celebrating another new beginning with the only man she wanted to start something with—and she is Blair-_fucking_-Waldorf, but she is alone on the balcony, looking past the Manhattan skyline. There was something magical about rooftops. There was something about being so high from the bottom, yet so easily tipped over, that reminded her of herself.

"Tsk, tsk," a voice rings out behind her, menacing without meaning to be, "Is this Blair Waldorf? _The_ Blair Waldorf? Whom my nephew chased for, how long have you known him? Ten years, was it? And the moment he finally has you…"

Blair turns around, sighing, not trying to hide her disgust. "… he runs away. I guess escape runs in the family, doesn't it, Jack?" She sneers, and he blinks, which seems suggestive, coming from Jack Bass. "What are you doing here? What are you—thirty, forty? Pedophile."

He smirks, the Great Bass Smirk, and it makes her heart hurt. She turns to face the sky again, ignoring the husky breathing getting closer, trying not to imagine _him_, wrapping his arms around her, his hot breaths radiating against the nape of her neck… Which he was probably doing to some Thai prostitute right this very minute, not a thought of her in his head. Selfish bastard. She looks down, watching the ant-sized cars honk at each other, and wonders how long it would take before someone realized she'd jumped off the edge.

"Blair," the familiar Bass swagger in his deep voice, God, this is murder, "we both know you want me as much as I do you."

She bites her lip and huffs, quickly buttoning her neckline before turning, ignoring his eyes drifting to her chest nevertheless. "Jack, you are a rapist, and I will report you if you don't fuck off. Besides, I don't think _Chuck_ would appreciate you hitting on me. And neither would the NYPD."

Jack lets out an ugly grin, like a twisted man, and she does not look into the familiar hazel of his eyes. "Please, my nephew would be overjoyed to have _you_ taken off his hands." Her eyes fill with tears within seconds and she blinks fast; _would be overjoyed to have _you _taken off his hands_. Her, a burden, a mere fascination. She remembers waiting at the helipad, and his ugly words. He couldn't tell her he loved her, couldn't accept it when she did him. Maybe he just didn't want her and she was too thick to realize. "Why do you think he's not here right now?"

"No," she says, unable to get her voice above a whisper. "No, that's – that's not true. That can't be true. He's – He's just scared." Jack shakes his head, his smirk telling otherwise.

His footsteps show stumbles, and she knows he's had too much, as always. He comes close, too close, but he is larger than her, and the tiny palms pushing against his chest are nothing. "Sweetie," he murmurs against the shell of her ear, and she feels dirty, "I didn't know you were so gullible."

Suddenly, his hands grab her—too rough, too needy; Chuck was raw and passionate but in a way that was _gentle_… or was that just imagined too?—and press her face to his, their lips fusing, and she hates the way his mouth tastes like cheap beer and cigarettes. She wants scotch and weed, dammit.

"What are you doing?" She mumbles desperately, trying to move away from his scratchy face, but he pushes it, pushes it far. "No. No, I – Get off of me!" Her eyes scan the rooftop in a panic, and no one is there to save her as she falls. He pushes her frail body against the wall of the building and she knows there will be bruises she'll never want to see.

He pulls away and examines her body; she is fully-clothed but the way his eyes drag over her makes her feel naked. He begins to unbutton his shirt, already having thrown away his sport jacket, and his fingers fumble with her blouse, urging her to do the same.

Blair glares, refusing to look at the hair of his chest. Chuck was manly too, but not in a way that resembled a gorilla. "Why should I? Pervert." There was something sick about this and she knew, but when she closed her eyes good and tight, he almost felt like Chuck.

"Pretend," he smiles sinisterly, and she holds back a sob when she sees into his eyes, watching the reflection of Chuck Bass. "Pretend I'm him."

She feels the tears form when he presses himself against her, hard evidence of his lust against her thigh. "You can never be him. Never."

"_But you've always been good at pretending_." He says, almost laughingly, and she shuts her eyes as her hands crawl up to undo the high buttons of her Neiman Marcus blouse.

He fumbles with his belt buckle, messy and inexperienced (despite the noisy nights at Chuck's house back when they were ten, the reasons why her and Serena refused to come see Uncle Jack when he came around), like a teenager, and she thinks about Chuck, how he is always prepared, smooth and steady. _You don't want this_. Chuck. Chuck. Chuck. _He isn't Chuck_. But he's right. I can pretend. _It's not enough_. For now, it is.

Jack forces himself against her; he is bare naked and unashamed, while she does not want to look, she does not want to look and be reminded once more that this is not Chuck, and it will probably never be Chuck again. "C'mon, baby." He whispers, hot and bothered, while she is holding back tears.

He kneels down, trailing his breath against the bare skin of her belly, smiling against her, and she wants to wash away the evidence of his grime. She thinks of Chuck, off in Thailand, fucking someone else without a care, without the guilt that invaded her right now. _He can do it, but I can't_? She was always a feminist, so she arches her back and lets out a breathy moan, thrusting her hips towards his mouth needily. "Please, Chuck," she groans, and he doesn't even say anything.

Fingers against skin, he hooks his fingers and pulls down her last remaining garment without warning, and she sighs when she feels the cool air hit every part of her body. He inches back up to her chest, kissing and nipping. It is not enjoyable but she ignores it because she's too busy with Chuck in her mind.

Suddenly, he is inside her, barely filling her, and she does not gasp with surprise (he always told her before he took her, and when real surprise fills her it is not the same.) He thrusts quick and sloppy and she feels tears run down her cheeks because it's not the same, _this isn't fair_. Why is he still in her mind? _Get out! Out! _Never.

"Mmm," he breathes, rubbing against her and she feels so wrong, so disgusting, she wants to fall off the rooftop and never see again. _Why? Why? Why? _"I'm so close." He sings, as though she needed to know, and the image of Chuck's broken mind plays against her memory and she knows that this is her sick form of replacement.

The world stops and she can see the lights shining; everyone was awake, everyone was happy and lusty and beautiful except for her and this ugly, ugly night. The voices below ring out with innocence—"Five! Four! Three! Two!"—and at the count of one as the New Year arrives, he comes with an animalistic groan, and she wants nothing more than her clothes back on and to forget this ever happened and to run to suite 1812 and cry.

"Thanks for that," he chuckles, stepping into his pants with his shirt buttoned—in the wrong holes, hopefully no one notices—and places a kiss on her cheek, which she pulls away abruptly from. "No wonder Chuck wanted you so bad."

And with that, she is alone and miserable, as empty as ever, as the New Year sweeps her away.


End file.
